Rose & Thorne
by wolfish
Summary: (Indefintely Suspended)Some unwelcome visitations from her alter ego, and a little mystery and intrigue, may lead Sydney to the two things she craves most: the re-conquest of Michael Vaughn and the head of Lauren Reed on a platter.
1. Chapter One

Title: Rose & Thorne

Author: wolfish

Rating: PG (subject to change)

Spoilers: Season 3

Disclaimer: Alias belongs to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, and ABC. Not me.

Summary: Some unwelcome visitations from her alter ego, and a little mystery and intrigue, may lead Sydney to the two things she craves most: the re-conquest of Michael Vaughn and the head of Lauren Reed on a platter.  

'Ship: SV, because for me, there simply is no other.

A/N: Be patient with me. It will take a lot of background to get to the plot I know most of you out there in fanfictiondom are waiting for. And while you're here, perform your random act of kindness for the day and leave me a review.

~~~~~~~~~~

_Every rose has its thorn._

~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter One

Eric Weiss was sincerely regretting not having that second cup of coffee this morning. It was one of those Monday mornings when a man would happily gouge out his own eyes, and the fact that Disaster had taken up permanent residence on Dixon's brow didn't bode well for the rest of his day. Dixon shuffled a few more papers into a pile, apparently unaware of five impatient individuals that were anticipating his reason for this meeting, and Weiss' eyelids took a dangerous dive that he narrowly averted with some rapid blinking. Screw the coffee; he shouldn't have even gotten out of bed today.

On his left, the person he envied most at the moment, Marshall, had easily withdrawn from the foreboding that stiffened the temper of the briefing room into his own bubble of good will. Occasionally, he ventured a small, buoyant smile at one or other of the room's occupants, but undaunted by the steely wall he repeatedly ran up against, he always returned to his self-imposed task. A towering stack of baby pictures leaned dangerously close to Weiss' elbow, from which Marshall was sorting the digital photos into two new piles, those uploaded on the family website and those which had not been uploaded. Glossy paper hissed against paper in a grating rhythm: uploaded, not uploaded, uploaded, uploaded, not uploaded.

To his right, Vaughn, his one real hope for any sort of conversation, was currently engaged in a staring contest with a suspiciously interesting piece of ceiling panel. Weiss sighed gustily, but the action seemed to make no impression on the stillness. The man was hopeless. _Wonder what he's thinking about? _As if it wasn't perpetually written across his face.

Across the table, Jack Bristow reached out in one fluid movement to cover his daughter's fingers with his own, putting an end to the incessant tapping that had been rapidly drumming through the last of his restraint. Sydney jerked her head around to stare at him, then realizing her unconscious motions, her hand flattened beneath his and she half-smiled at him, a mixture of mild embarrassment and fretful nerves. Without any effort on his part, he found himself returning the gesture, the tension in his shoulders instantly dissolving. He wanted to tell her that there was nothing to worry about, but he couldn't make his mouth move to form the words; the lie just wasn't worth the energy. Instead, he squeezed her fingers one last time before they both returned to gazing intently at some anonymous point in the middle distance. 

At long last, Dixon seemed to be satisfied with his mound of paperwork and turned a thinly stretched look of long-suffering on the assembled, exchanging a few good mornings and pleasantries up and down the table. He settled further back in his chair, dark eyes completely blank and unreadable in all their business-like manner. "Getting to the point, as some of you may have already guessed, there has been a resurgence of activity on Echelon concerning the name Rambaldi. Along with it have been some key words that piqued our concern, including delivery, San Paulo, and…" He aimed one hasty sideways glance at the lone woman in the room, then dropped his eyes ashamedly. "And Sydney Bristow." 

Sydney's eyes went round with the first hint of shock. Vaughn's attention was temporarily wrenched away from its meditation on the wall. The muscles in Jack's back seized up again. Dixon barely let himself pause in his haste to move on, hoping to divert the inevitable outburst from all corners. "Obviously, in this situation, the interests of the Agency were aligned firmly with my own, and with their full support I was able to request some preference for this matter. Weiss, Vaughn," two manila folders slid with perfect aim and velocity down the table to skid to a stop in front of their intended recipients, "this will be your mission."

His window of time slammed vehemently shut. "Hold on," Sydney demanded as she tried to pull the scattered bits of her objection into some coherent argument. "_My_ name is being thrown around, and _they_ are the ones assigned the mission? Did I miss something? Shouldn't I have some say in this?"

"_Sydney_," he used the clout of his new position of authority to turn the word into a reprimand. "If you will wait, once I am finished, I will be glad to explain my decision to you. But now…" he turned his attention to the opposite side of the table. "The two of you will be leading a team to San Paulo. The object is to stake out, and possibly raid, this building." The monitors around the table were switched on by a touch to a button on the remote Dixon held, showing only a picture of a simple, moderately well-kept two-story. "We discovered after some investigation that the lease was signed by a man named Douglas Avery, a known associate of the Covenant, and several witnesses have identified Sark as the man they have frequently seen entering and exiting the property. The rest--patterns in the hours Sark visits, other Covenant visitors that have been identified--is included in the folders I gave you. Your flight leaves in a few hours. If at all possible, that 'delivery' needs to be intercepted, but I trust your discretion."

"'If at all possible'?" Sydney parroted, climbing to her feet, irritated with the frivolity with which the matter was being handled. "Dixon--"

"Sydney, it was my thinking that if I sent two people who you trusted, who obviously have your best interests in mind, that you might be able to understand--"

"Understand what? Trust whom? I don't feel very trusting right now."

He ground his teeth. "Being as close as you are to the situation, we thought the safest approach was to keep you away from any possible danger. We have no intention of repeating the past two years."

"Everything comes back to that, doesn't it? My missing two years. Is it the Agency that doesn't trust _me_ now? Have I not proven myself loyal yet?"

His calm broke and he half-rose in his chair to lean menacingly over the table, matching her blistering glare. "_Sit down, Sydney._" She wavered under his attack, but it was Jack whose hand wrapped around her wrist to pressure her forcefully back to her seat. Dixon concentrated on one long breath, trying to find some civility to put back into his voice. "You are fortunate to even be allowed in this meeting. Against the CIA's wishes, I chose to include you, so you would not have to learn about this through some back channel because I had the decency not to want to keep any more secrets from you than possible. Apparently, I overestimated your maturity and your rationality. Luckily, I provided myself with an option in just such a case as this. You will be held under observation in a safe house until the time when I conclude that all danger has passed." Dixon collapsed wearily back into his chair and waved a dismissive hand. "Jack, if you would please."

Resignedly, Jack gripped his daughter by the elbow and guided her out of the room and down to the parking garage, where a car was waiting for her.

Dixon pinched the bridge of his nose as he watched the straight, angry posture of her back as it retreated. _She had to forgive him. Eventually._

"Weiss, Vaughn," he murmured indifferently, "if you will stay for a few more minutes, Marshall will explain op tech to you."

~~~~~~~~~~   

Sydney Bristow glowered at the walls of her prison, especially at the one-way glass partition behind which her invisible captors were hiding their faces. Beside the couch she lay on, a pizza box was open on the coffee table, but remained untouched, and the TV blared unremarkable background noise. She couldn't find the appetite to eat food she knew she needed, and she couldn't find any program appealing enough to distract her reflections.

Outside, somewhere, there were people using her name, her identity for something she had never wanted to be a part of. And no one understood that. No one could understand that now, when she finally had her life back to herself, when she had the means to control it again, the fact that someone else could use her without her knowledge was a threat to her very sanity. She was tired of being used. She just wanted to belong to herself for once.

She could feel her grasp on her self-control slackening.

Someone else had claimed her name. Someone else had compelled her into that van this morning. Someone else had put her here. Some else had ordered that food. 

Dixon had betrayed her. Her father had betrayed her. Everyone in that room had betrayed her by not objecting to this. _Vaughn had betrayed her._

She choked a sob back against her knuckles. These strangers weren't allowed to see her cry.

All she had left to call her own was the small, smoldering pocket of rage festering in her chest.

She curled into a bitter ball against the abrasive fabric of the upholstery. For now at least, she was in charge of her own body, she could still coerce the well-trained muscles to loosen, her heartbeat to slow, her breathing to even. She pressed herself down into the dark pit of oblivion, where she wouldn't think at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

_Her back hit the wall both literally and figuratively. The woman known as Julia Thorne clutched the oblong object stuffed in her purse possessively to her stomach. She didn't know what she carried, nor did she care; she had only stolen it from the private safe because it was essential in demonstrating to Simon Walker that she was trustworthy and ultimately valuable to have around. And now she was going to risk her life for this little piece of nothing._

_She tossed the purse behind her, freeing her hands to pull the combs out of her hair. She pulled the teeth away from the rest of decorative hair ornaments and discarded them, revealing two razor blades. Wielding them, she readied herself for the four muscled men barreling down the hallway after her. _

_She slashed carelessly at the first one to approach her, drawing blood. He reeled, his hand lured to his shoulder to inspect the damage. Someone that large was unused to anyone landing a blow. She took advantage of the lapse in his guard to slip her blades up her sleeves as she darted behind him, grabbing a vase from a table, and swinging it one rapid motion to shatter against the back of his head. His knees gave out and he crashed to the floor, spreading a pool of blood on the rich carpet. _

_When all four where laid out in the same way, she considered dragging them into a nearby room to hide the evidence, but she didn't have the time or excess energy it would take. Simon would be anxious to escape with this particular item, and she most likely wouldn't be around when they were discovered._

_She inspected her image in a mirror hanging in a powder room a few feet down the corridor before reentering the auction being held in the massive ballroom of the estate. Hell stared back at her out of her own eyes. She reapplied her lipstick and tucked her loose hair firmly behind her ears, deeming herself presentable._

_Simon greeted her enthusiastically when she returned, escorting her quickly outside to the car he had waiting. Inside, he could barely wait to inspect his new prize, dangling her purse over his hands and dumping it greedily into his fist. He rolled it over in his palms a few times before smiling appreciatively at her. His eyes were too intent on her lips. _

_"Brilliant, babe. Just brilliant."_

_She scowled in the darkness as she maneuvered the car under an overpass._

_It was praise, but it wasn't what she was aching for. She remembered someone who would have thoughtfully made a point of the good job she had done, who would have exclaimed over the bruise she could sense growing on the back of her knee, who would have had a band aid for the cut oozing down her shoulder. But she wasn't supposed to remember. That memory belonged to another life, another person._

_Sydney Bristow was dead, but at least for tonight Julia Thorne was very much alive.   _


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Jack Bristow was sleeping peacefully for the first time in weeks, which meant, of course, it couldn't last.

A surprising, guilty sort of relief had sprung from the fact that Sydney was securely confined in a safe house under constant observation. Morality told him he should be agonizing over the fact that he had been an instrument in Dixon's plan to hold his daughter against her will, but he couldn't be moved enough to let morality bother him. He was tired, strained, overwrought, and to be perfectly honest, plain glad to have at least one woman off his mind for the night.

It had been a pleasant enough evening, if strange in its idleness: he had the time and freedom of choice to sit down and enjoy dinner at his favorite restaurant, no calls had interrupted his viewing of the local news when he had settled himself into his comfy, old chair in the living room, and he had even had the inclination to pick up a book when the program was over. And when he had finally stretched out on his bed, he found his mind shockingly and delightfully blank. There were no problems or ideas or worries to chase each other around until the night had whittled itself away. Somehow, the world had fallen seamlessly into place, and for tonight everything made sense in an incomprehensible way. The matter of Sydney was resolved, and his mind dove into the fog of sleep before any more concerns could capture its attention. 

The deafening ring of the phone near his ear jostled him upright long before any sunlight found his windowsill, and he reached automatically for it. With one half-formed sigh, he relinquished any hope of rest.

"Jack Bristow."

"Jack? It's me." Dixon's voice betrayed weariness, like he had just been roused from his bed too. There was uneasiness there, as well, that bordered on fear. Jack's feet hit the floor immediately, his hands already searching for the pants he had discarded a few hours before. "I--Jack, something…_unexpected_ has come up at the safe house." Jack attempted to listen calmly while Dixon explained exactly what he meant, concentrating on keeping his hands steady on the buttons of his shirt, but he felt his heart was slamming a bit too violently against his rib cage. 

"Impossible," he declared irrationally when it was his turn to speak. "There were four men outside that door and two at the entrance, not to mention two out on the street. To get past them, you would have had to have a fairly large team, or a fairly potent weapon. Either way, _someone_ should have noticed and put out a distress call."

Dixon's patient answer threatened to steal all the strength from his knees, and he lowered himself with some dignity to sit heavily on the edge of the bed. "Oh. I see." His voice was detached from the rest of his body in its self-assured monotone, which lent it an eerie, disembodied echo. "She did it herself. From the inside."

_Think, Bristow_, he urged the dazed silence of his mind. _What comes next? Shoes_, he reminded himself. Then, _Sydney_.

"Have there been any sightings? Do we have any idea where she was headed?"

"She was just picked up about half an hour ago…wandering around the lot where her house used to be. One of the neighbors called the police on her." There was a pregnant pause on Dixon's end, hinting at something as yet undisclosed, but Jack didn't seek to fill it, instead using the time to switch the phone to the balance in the curve of his neck while he employed both hands in pulling on his socks. "Jack…she--she claims she doesn't remember anything of what happened. In the past few hours, I mean."

Fully dressed, Jack stood up, running his hands over his pockets to ensure everything was in place. _Keys. Wallet. Good. _"Call Kendall. Wallace, too, if you think we'll need him. Anybody you can think of. And tell her--tell Sydney that I'm on my way."

~~~~~~~~~~

Looming over the shoulder of the guard, Jack stared at the black and white video monitor. Sydney was slumped on the bare cot in the glass-walled holding cell, elbows on knees, chin fallen to her chest, hands limp and palm-upwards, the absolute picture of supplication and defeat.

_If she really doesn't remember anything…_

A dull ache lodged in the left side of his chest unconsciously drew his arm up to rub at the sore spot, and for a moment there seemed to be no room in his lungs for breath. When the moment passed though, he took stock of the position of his limbs and his temporary absence of self-control, and quickly shoved the offending hand back into his pocket. 

A weakness, he decided, was a terrible thing to have. Especially when one wanted to keep that weakness as close as he did.

He nodded stiffly to the guard, and waited patiently for the door to open fully before passing through it into the hallway. On the other side of the glass, Sydney rose expectantly when she saw him, and the hope in her eyes shriveled his heart with knowledge that he had no good news to offer. After another wooden nod in the direction of the guard, the mechanical click of a lock alerted him to the fact that the door separating him from his daughter was now open. When he crossed the threshold into the opposite side, he was met with a warm body that melded into his own with sufficient force to stun him into taking three steps backwards. Hugs were still new to him. 

"What's happening?" she begged him in a fierce whisper. He resisted the temptation to stroke her hair like he had when she was little.

"Sit down," he said gruffly enough to make him flinch with the awkwardness of it. She obeyed with the deliberate caution of a trapped animal, while her eyes repeated her question. He drew himself up to stand straight, making silent preparations for his speech. "I only know what I've been told, and I can't say any of it is particularly comforting. All the interviews that have been conducted so far agree that you faked an emergency around midnight last night. You lured your guards into opening the door and…overwhelmed them."

Her clenched jaw took on an ashen pallor. "How badly did I hurt them?"

"Sydney, what's important here--"

"It's important to me. What did I do?"

"It's not as bad as anything you're thinking. Mostly bumps and bruises. One with a broken ankle. Another is being treated for a minor concussion. The two out on the street are fine--they never even saw you leave.

"We can discuss the details of what happened later, but what I need to know now is what only you can tell me. What happened between your escape from the safe house and when the police picked you up this morning?" He slumped to sit beside her, occupying a surprisingly large portion of the dangerously undersized cot, and clinched her hand in his own. "You have to remember. It has to be in your mind somewhere."

She was already shaking her head before he finished speaking. "I've _tried_. There's nothing…it's just blank. I fell asleep on the couch, and then I was standing on a street with a flashlight shining in my eyes. I think I must be going crazy."

"You're not crazy," he protested. He pressed his shoulders against the solidity of the wall and fought the urge to close his eyes from sheer exhaustion and disappointment. "It's alright. We prepared for this. I have a few people waiting; they'll ask you some questions, do some tests, to try to help you recover the time you're missing."

"Dad, I can't."

"Don't worry. I'll be there almost the whole time. They won't do a thing to you without my permission." He climbed sharply to his feet, pulling her up after him. "We have to leave now, though. They're waiting."

He relinquished her hand in order to turn the handle on the door, but the pressure of her grip on his arm made him stop and turn to face her.

"Wait. Before I forget, what happened in San Paulo? Did Vaughn and Weiss find anything?"

He made a dismissive gesture and finished opening the door, guiding them both out into the hallway. "There was nothing in San Paulo. The building was completely deserted by the time they got there, cleaned out. Either it was a trap set for you, or someone on the inside tipped Sark off. I seriously doubt the former, since the Covenant wouldn't have gone to the trouble without the certainty that you would come yourself. As for the latter, the CIA is taking the necessary precautions as we speak.

"Weiss is flying home this afternoon, but Vaughn volunteered to stay with half the team for a few more days to ensure they're not missing something," he added, aware that she would want to know about both of the men.

"A mole in the agency?" she murmured, misgivings stirring in her imagination. "They don't think it's me, do they? I know everything seems pretty suspicious--attacking CIA agents, disappearing like I did--but I swear I haven't betrayed the CIA. Whatever happened, I know I didn't--couldn't do that."

"I believe you. But that's why I need you to speak with the people I asked here. To make sure that you will never be considered a suspect."

~~~~~~~~~~

As Sydney had averred, there was nothing to be found in her mind, despite the noble efforts of Jack's experts. 

Weary in all aspects after another strenuous day, Sydney drug herself through the parking garage to the car she had been forced to abandon the morning of the day before. Inserting her key in the engine, she considered how, even with evidence otherwise, she was very lucky in some facets of her life. She should have never been released from CIA custody since they had been unable to discover any pardonable motivation behind her episode the previous night, but she attributed her discharge to the combined labors and influence of her father and Dixon.

The same two men she had been cursing yesterday, she was suddenly, exceedingly grateful for. 

She noticed Weiss's kitchen light was on when she eased up her driveway, but she didn't have the energy to welcome him home, or to hear the particulars of San Paulo from his own lips. Company for her misery seemed unbearable in her surreal state. 

She fumbled her way into her own kitchen, shedding clothing and excess items on the way. Opening the refrigerator, she reminded herself that she hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours, but nothing was remotely appetizing. Grabbing a beer, she nursed it while she rested her aching feet on the couch and attempted to sort through the haze of her situation. When the bottle was empty, she was no more relaxed than before, and her state of affairs was no clearer.

She stared longingly down the carpeted stretch to her bedroom and visualized the steps it would take to get there in her head, but ultimately the actual action escaped her. She set the bottle on the coffee table and curled around one of the pillows on the couch.

~~~~~~~~~~

_Assassination was where all the jobs were._

_Crouching on an open roof under a drenching downpour, Julia Thorne trained her sniper rifle on thin air and waited for her victim to enter the street for their appointed meeting outside the tiny restaurant below. On the exterior, she was composed, every muscle disciplined into stillness despite the icy damp, but on the inside she seethed. _

_The Covenant had expected her to blindly follow orders, given her a name and a face and instructed her to kill a man. Of course she had done her own background check on the man afterwards. He wasn't quite the malevolent nemesis that had been imprinted upon her, but her wasn't anyone redeemable either: a major dealer in the nuclear black market. A rival the Covenant needed destroyed._

_And so here she was, in the pounding rain and the brutal wind, following orders. Just not blindly._

_A black umbrella rounded the corner, followed by three drenched security personnel openly toting weapons. She lowered her belly to the ground, sliding closer to the edge to get a glimpse of the face cowering under the umbrella. He turned half-around to consult the man on his left at the obvious absence of their client, allowing her the perfect angle to identify his features. _Right man_.    _

_She wiped her slick hands uselessly against her dark pants and gripped the gun again, steadying her aim. She tightened her index finger on the trigger. Blood and rain splattered on the wet concrete. _

_As fire opened in the ground below her, she slithered back from the rim of the roof, quickly disassembling and repacking her rifle in its case. Brashly rising to stand at her full height, she caught sight of a barely discernable figure in the third-story window of the warehouse across the street. Her Covenant trail was half-concealed by the frame of the glass, watching to guarantee she completed her mission. She grinned spitefully at the anonymous spectator and raised a hand in salutation._

_A bullet disturbed the air by her left ear and she dove to her right, escaping through the rooftop door back into the shelter of the building._

~~~~~~~~~~

In the first half-minute of wakefulness, Sydney Bristow couldn't dredge up any memory of where she was. Then she recognized the sheets as those of her own bed, and as she stretched her protesting body into a sitting position, she wondered at what point of the night she had discovered the power to haul herself to her room. The comfortable cotton of her pajama bottoms whispered against itself when she kicked back the covers.

She was only just setting her feet on the floor when the rust-colored spot at the end of her bed registered in the early-morning fog of her mind. It stretched nearly three feet long and one wide, soaked into the fabric of the carpet, and dried into stiffness. In the midst of it was a tangled pile of clothes splotched with the same substance. _Her clothes._

The whole room smelled like blood. She stifled a silent scream in her palms as she backed herself against the headboard of her bed. It took another minute of knotted revulsion in her stomach before she devised a plan of action. Picking up the phone, she dialed the first number that she could remember. 

When the concerned voice on the other end was finally cut off by the click of the receiver falling, she replaced the handset and brought her knees to her chest, hugging her elbows around them as she waited expectantly for the knock on the front door. Shock had reduced her to uncontrollable shakes, but the panic she had felt was internally receding to be replaced by one lucid thought: this was turning out to be one god-awful week.


	3. Chapter Three

A/N: Thanks to a little immediate and encouraging commentary from some of you out there, I was more confident in this chapter, and thus typed it a bit faster. So, I suppose that means some thank-you's and shout-out's are in order: **Sobee1982**, **chopsticks**, **Becky**, and **Lady Prongs of Rohan**. Hugs and kisses, folks. And now, please do enjoy.  

Chapter Three

Weiss looked like he had barely taken the time to pull his shirt over his head in his rush down the street. The cowlick that sleep had coaxed into his hair might have even been comical in her half-hysterical state as she watched him pace the length of the stain on her carpet, but Sydney was too intent on being somber. At length, he halted in front of her, shoulders lifting in an unconscious shrug.

"Looks bad, doesn't it?" she whispered quietly, folding her arms protectively over her chest.

"Well, I think we can pretty much rule out this being any good news." 

In the successive moment's silence, he struggled with his next words, but she anticipated his aim, and answered the questions he wasn't willing to ask with all the details of the night before she could dredge from her memory. 

"I woke up this morning, in my bed, in my pajamas," she concluded her account, picking at her clothing, "with no memory of anything between that and falling asleep on the couch. That blood could have been there before I even got home, but I couldn't tell you anything for certain because I never came in here last night."

"What I want to know," he said slowly, "is what brand of beer _did_ you have?"

Her eyes plead with him to be serious. He rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his hair, then crossed the room abruptly to throw the doors of her closet open. Grabbing at the first thing in sight, he tossed a pair of jeans at her, rapidly followed by a shirt. She hugged the articles instinctively to her chest, staring wordless queries in his direction.

"Go on," he shooed her with his hands. "Take a shower, get dressed. You'll feel less…_icky_ afterwards. We can decide what comes next from there."

But she refused to understand, and he nearly came to the point of undressing her himself, when modesty kicked in and she slammed the bathroom door in his face. On the other side, he leaned his back against the wall with a sigh that hovered somewhere between relief and exasperation.

When she appeared again with skin scrubbed raw and red, clad in fresh clothes, Weiss was sprawled out on the floor in front of the door, legs stretched out in front of him. "Feel better?" he asked, gazing up at her.

"Wonderful." She rolled her eyes at him, but her sense of humor seemed miles away.  She had taken the minutes spent in the bathroom to compose herself, a mask dropping to cover the trembling inside her. "What do you suggest I do now, o great leader?"

"While you were unwinding in there, I called in the experts," he grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. "Your dad will be here in a few minutes. I defer all further decisions to him."

She invited him to stay with her until Jack arrived, and they situated themselves awkwardly at opposite ends of the couch in the living room. On the coffee table, the one empty beer she had placed there before dropping out of consciousness had been mysteriously replaced by four bottles. Weiss looked at her; she couldn't look at him.

He reached across the distance between them to press her hand compassionately. "I'm sorry," he tried haltingly. "I'm sorry that all this had to happen to you. Not just this morning--not that it's the most pleasant way to wake up--but everything. I don't think I always appreciate just how hard it must be on you."

She considered the warmth of his hand around hers. So many people came into her life, but hardly any stayed for any length of time. She had so few friends nowadays; she didn't want to take this for granted. "Thank you. For coming so quickly, for being so patient, for waiting with me. I'm sure this wasn't how you were expecting to spend your morning."

"This? This is nothing. My sisters made bigger messes fighting over the bathroom before school."

"Sisters?" she latched to any hope of conversation. "I never knew you had sisters."

"You didn't ask, did you? Don't worry about it," he amended hastily when he noticed her instant mortification. "Yeah, I have three sisters. But to make things worse, I'm the baby of the family. I was the guinea pig to all their experiments. They have some rather embarrassing photos of me in makeup and dresses stored away to use as blackmail." The tone of his voice contradicted the familial pride shining in his face. "But you have to love them, you know? I mean, without them, I might have gone my entire life thinking I was an autumn when I'm actually a spring."

She would have laughed, but she was too frightened she might cry in her still shaken condition.

Jack brought with him an air of absolute competence that nearly made her believe he could wave his hand and make her troubles take flight. She watched him walk the same path around her room that Weiss had, and she gave him the same answers that she had to Weiss--the only ones she knew. Weiss stood on the other side of Jack and nodded his agreement with the statements.

"Sydney," Jack began as he finished his inspection, "I need you to answer one question with complete honesty. Do you know the name James Dunn?"

"James Dunn? I don't understand what that has to do with anything," she protested.

"Do you," he repeated firmly, "recognize the name James Dunn?"

"No. Should I?"

"Mr. Dunn was one of the members of the FBI tribunal that questioned you a few years ago when the Prophecy was first uncovered. An upstanding man, generally well liked, and recently promoted. He was reported missing late last night by his live-in maid. His body was discovered early this morning a few blocks from here in an alley behind a restaurant."

"Are you suggesting that I might have _murdered_ him?"

"Did I say any such thing?" he snapped, glaring sideways at her. "I'm just preparing you for the possibility that someone might connect the two of you. That they might suspect you had a motive for revenge."

"How can I have a motive for the murder of a man I don't even remember meeting? I didn't do this."

"I know," he voice had taken on a soothing quality to counter the alarm creeping into hers. "But I will need a sample of the blood to take with me for the lab to examine. Just to be certain."

"Of course," she answered hollowly, bending to pick up the clothes lying untouched in the middle of the spot. "Take this." She handed him the frist piece of cloth she could detach from the pile, and gathered the rest to her chest. She took a few tentative steps toward the laundry room. "I should wash these…or maybe I'll burn them."

Jack studied her anxiously, noting the slightly unconnected way she moved. He reached out his hand to touch her arm, but it fell short, and he dropped it back to his side. "Sydney, I think it would be best if you came back to HQ with me. I'd like to have you nearby for whatever happens."

Her face was gradually losing its color and her hands shook under her burden. The smell of blood was clouding all her senses. Was this James Dunn's blood? Had she really killed a man? Had she lost all control over her own mind, her own body?

The clothes fluttered to the floor from her limp arms. "I think I'm going to be sick." She lurched several more steps out of the room and into the hallway, and Jack forced himself to remain silent spectator. _She's a big girl; she doesn't need me to hold her hair. _It only when her progressively steadying gait took her straight past the bathroom door, that his apprehension reached its pinnacle, but he reached the kitchen only in time to catch the fading echo of keys jingling and the front door closing. Ending his now-frenetic sprint on the porch, he was only in time to catch a glimpse of the bumper of her car rounding the corner of her street. If he had been by himself, he might have dropped his head to his hands, but instead he held himself upright and impassive. 

"She knew better than to do something like that," he said to no one in particular, but at his shoulder, Weiss inclined his head gravely in agreement. "They're only going to think she's guilty after this."

~~~~~~~~~~

_The momentum of her body colliding with it robbed the chair of its uneasy balance and flung it, with her still attached, to the ground. The combined force of her back slamming into the wooden floorboards and the burning footprint in the middle of her chest that had sent her there squeezed the oxygen out of her lungs in one painful, surprised whoop. Wasting only the time it took to blink the black spots out of her vision, she drew her knees to her chest and counted the footsteps of her opponent as she approached. _One, Two…Three._ She shoved her heels into the seat of the chair ferociously, gathering all her anger and frustration into the movement, propelling the chair into a swift slide across the polished oak planks. The sharp and over-adorned claws it claimed as feet dug into the bare skin of her attacker's legs, yanking an outraged yelp from the blonde's throat. Hatred lit her pale eyes with a new, internal light as she climbed over the piece of furniture._

_Julia Thorne scrambled to her feet in the pause her latest assault had allowed her, scanning the room for another strategy. The curtains caught her attention just a few feet away: thick and voluminous fabric in asymmetrical patterns that hung heavily on a sturdy-looking rod. Without faltering, she began to back herself towards the far end of the window, allowing some genuine fear to enter into her expression and her arms to droop in her best imitation of a mother bird, feigning a wounded wing in order to lure a predator away from her nest. _Look_, she begged her adversary silently, _Look at me. I did something stupid. I backed myself into a corner. I'm too tired, too hurt to think straight. Now you have the advantage. Come and get me._ The blonde advanced, and Julia's whole body sang with triumph._

_Between the two rapt combatants, the window framed a flawless view of the Eiffel Tower in all its nocturnal glory. Below it, the streets of Paris swelled with her people as they were drawn from their homes into the night in celebration of Bastille Day. The horizon blazed with exploding fireworks, filling the sky with innumerable falling stars. For a moment, it seemed the entire world was on fire._

_"Make a wish," Julia muttered as she reached up to snatch at the curtain. With the right leverage, the whole unit collapsed, covering her enemy with twisted folds of strangling fabric. Stooping quickly to scoop up the rod that had held the drapes up, she examined it in her palms: dense, heavy, nearly four inches in diameter, and perfect. She waited until a head emerged from the tangles of constraining cloth, then aimed directly below it. At the end of her charge, the metal connected decisively with flesh, giving way to the terrible moist snap of at least one rip fracturing. The blonde doubled protectively around her middle, wheezing dreadfully. Julia abandoned the rod, once again grappling with the hems of the curtains, and with one wrench, jerked the fabric out from beneath the other woman's shoes. Unable to compensate, she tottered and tumbled over backwards, knocking her head forcibly against the hardwood. Julia observed dispassionately as the woman's breathing faltered for a few heartbeats before resuming in painful, laborious gasps._

_Julia ransacked the already decimated apartment in quest of the documents she had been sent for, finally uncovering the thin folder under the bulk of the overthrown couch. She had to move quickly; she knew there had been a video camera in the blonde's brooch, and somewhere a few miles away from where she stood someone was panicking over the loss of some sensitive paperwork to an unexpected visitor. In half an hour there would be dozens of operatives scouring the streets, all with her face printed on a paper tucked into their pockets. She took the stairwell downstairs two steps at a time, flinging herself out on to the avenue to be lost in the faceless security of the Parisian mob. _

_In her hotel room, she locked herself in the bathroom with the supplies she always carried with her in case of emergency. She dyed her hair over the sink, spreading stains on the complimentary towels, and blow-dried it to hang in front of her eyes, shielding her face. Darkening her makeup, she tried to create the illusion of someone else. When she was satisfied with the result, she threw her suitcase on the bed, rummaging through for only the most essential items to shove into a small backpack; the rest she abandoned. She didn't bother to close the door behind her as she made her way to the lobby, and back out into the festivities to search for a phone to place a safe call on. She needed a new passport._

~~~~~~~~~~

Lauren insisted on taking him out to dinner as soon as he got home, despite the fact that he assured her several times he would be just as happy at staying at the house. He was barely in the door before she was driving him back out, not even allowing him the time to change his travel-stained clothes, and his complaints only made her more adamant that they hadn't spent nearly enough time together lately. "My treat," she had teased as she slid the money out of his wallet.

Dinner itself was a tense affair, with each trying to surpass the other in their politeness. There was a frailty to the evening, to their relationship in general, that made them afraid to cross some invisible line into shaky territory, afraid that the other might shred away the flimsy layers in response and reveal what was at the heart. She was at her most charming, she beamed and kept them to safe topics, like the weather and hockey and her family, while he laughed at jokes that weren't funny and swallowed his wine. Neither dared mention the letters 'c' or 'i' or 'a,' or anything else of real meaning to either of them. They brushed hands and elbows and lips across the dinner table like lovers, but shared only as much as they would with any stranger.

She drove them home because his first glass of wine had been inevitably followed by a second, and possibly a third. While she went ahead into the house, he wrestled his still-unpacked duffle bag out of the backseat, but he dropped it again on the threshold when a muffled shriek startled him into action. 

Lauren stood at the entrance to their bedroom, hand frozen unconsciously on the light switch, gawking open-mouthed at the wreck inside. The curtains had been torn off the windows, every dresser drawer wrenched out of its place, the sheets ripped from the bed and scattered across the floor, and the mattress itself had been tossed nearly to the opposite side of the room. The broken window, which had sprayed glass perilously across the carpet, was obviously the point of entrance.

He pushed his way past, ducking under his wife's arm, and sifted automatically through the wreckage, taking a quick inventory of the objects."I don't get it," he murmured more to himself, unbending with a one of his shirts in hand. "Everything still seems to be here. What could they have been looking for?"

"I don't think this was a robbery, Michael," Lauren answered faintly from where she still stood in the doorway. "I think someone was trying to frighten me."

"Frighten you?" He let the shirt slide to lie on the dresser. "Lauren, if there's something you haven't been telling me…"

"Don't you get it? This was _her_ doing. Sydney is trying to scare me."

"Sydney." He ran a hand roughly over his eyes. "It's a very--_very_--remote possibility. But why would she jeopardize her standing at the CIA to do something this petty? Besides, smashing the window is too much of a hassle; she would have just picked the lock."

"You're defending her." Shadows covered her eyes in darkness as they narrowed distrustfully. He would have done anything at that moment to derail this argument--the one argument he could never win.

"No. I'm being logical. Think about the work we do--I'm sure we've made quite a few enemies that might have a motive for this."

"Logical? How can I be? This was a direct attack on _me_, on _my_ home. She hates me just because I'm the woman you married, and I can't think of any obstacle that would stop her from getting what she wants. Who's side are you taking? Because I think your loyalties should lie more with your wife than your…your…your _girlfriend_," she sputtered to an infuriated stop.

The whole statement was absurd enough to tempt him to laugh, but he clenched his teeth over his lip as he squatted down to lift one corner of the mattress. "Alright. We're getting ahead ourselves. Jumping to conclusions isn't going to make this any clearer. Let's take this one slow step at a time. We can talk over all the scenarios while we clean up. Can you give me a hand with this, sweetheart?"

She crossed her arms around her stomach, cutting herself off emotionally from him. Her body was drawn as stiff and straight as the wall behind her. "I'm leaving for a conference in Toronto early tomorrow, and I won't get home until this weekend. When I get back--" She took a deep breath to calm the rage that had crept back into her tone. "When I get back, I want her gone, Michael. I mean it. And maybe then I'll be _logical_ enough to discuss it with you. I'll be on the couch if you need me." The door shuddered with a resounding crash as she slammed it, announcing her exit.

He hefted the mattress by himself and replaced it on the frame. He let himself fall into its embrace, staring broodingly at the ceiling, stretched out on his back, hands tucked behind his head. He dozed infrequently over the next few hours, his dreams knotted up inseparably with the nightmares of waking hours, until he heard Lauren stumble in the dimness of the room some time before dawn. He closed his eyes and relaxed his expression, feigning sleep to avoid another confrontation. He sensed her scrutinizing for several minutes before she finally gave in, and left with the clothes she had come for. Shortly afterwards the shower started up, then the blow dryer, the coffee pot, and finally the car.

He heard he key locking the front door and he turned his back to the wall, falling back into the darkness of his thoughts.    

 


	4. Chapter Four

A/N: I've come to the realization that what people really want is recognition. So, I've decided to recognize those of you who take the time to review with a Hall of Fame in hopes that it might entice some of you shyer ones into participating. Or do nothing at all. Whatever. It will include all the names of the reviewers from the previous chapter (and perhaps a personal message if I deem you extra-special!) Let's commence with the praise: 

**_Hall of Fame:_** **Lady Prongs of Rohan **(Are you psychic? Shhh! Quit giving away my plot!), **chopsticks **(Thank you for the thank you for the thank you. I hope this doesn't become a gratitude war.), **Melissa **(Intrigued is good. Very good. And Lauren is bad. Very bad.), and **Diz** (Honored you deemed this review-worthy. And Sydulia--how perfect! how apt! I love it!)

Chapter Four

"Jack," the voice crackling over the bad connection was startlingly mild for an army veteran well into his fifty-fifth year of a particularly harsh existence.

"You're stalling, Thomas. I didn't call you because I wanted my feelings pandered to. I want your report, plain and simple."

The general was silent for a moment, perhaps collecting his data and preparing his words, or maybe he was surprised by the unreserved bluntness of his old acquaintance. He might have expected it in any other situation, but this was his daughter after all. A stone would have shown more emotion. "I sent my boys out to check every name on that list, just like you asked."

"And?"

"Third one from the top, Georgia Baker, we found her dead in her kitchen. Steak knife. Not very pretty."

"That's all I needed. Thank you."

"Anything I can do, Jack."

Jack set the receiver back in the cradle and pressed his thumbs to his temples. There was a headache burning there. After a long breath, he reached for the list of names Thomas had mentioned, skimming quickly over the inventory of people Sydney could have held grudges against in the past, and then taking up a ballpoint pen, painstakingly crossed out _Ms. Georgia L. Baker_. The second member of the FBI tribunal. 

~~~~~~~~~~

They found her car three hours later, deserted miles outside of the city. Dixon phoned Jack to give him the news.

"Jack, we have to accept the possibility that we won't find her if she's left the city. She could be anywhere, she could be anyone."

"No," the other man agreed. "We won't find her. But she will come back. She knows she's innocent--_I_ know she's innocent--and she'll be back to clear her name."

Dixon considerately closed him teeth around any reservations he could have expressed.

~~~~~~~~~~

A call was made to a line that had been abandoned for months, the same line that had been the contact between Kendall and Julia Thorne. The payphone it had been placed on was traced to an area inside Los Angeles, and they scoured the entire vicinity in a four-mile radius until they located her sitting on a bench in the park; she didn't offer any struggle, appearing almost as if she had been expecting them. Jack was on the scene in minutes, but he barely recognized his daughter after the transformation two days had wrought. She had dyed her hair in a deep shade of black, the kind that you can see purple in the heart of, and sheared bangs into her hairstyle. She stared at him with the same mild curiosity with which she regarded the rest of agents milling excitedly around her, without a trace of recognition, but he gathered her into his arms anyway. She stood utterly motionless within their circle, neither pulling away nor leaning nearer to him, and he felt her so slight and fragile and alien. He gripped her tighter and willed her to be Sydney again.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was an agonizing eternity before a messenger, breathless from a climb of several flights of stairs, leaned wearily against the doorway of his office as he informed Jack that his daughter was asking for him. He sent the man speedily back the route he had come with instructions to bring Sydney to Dixon's office, where the two of them would meet with her. They directed her to the empty leather chair in the room, and firmly closed the door behind her, shutting out the ambient noise of the agency outside. Jack felt a weight in his chest lift at the way she looked right at him, at the tiny, uncertain smile that made him for a moment the only person in her world.

She shifted uncomfortably in the slick seat, her eyes swinging between the pair of silent men who were waiting on her to speak. "No one will tell me anything. What happened this time?"

Jack's lips tightened into a nearly invisible line, which Dixon took as a signal that it was his duty to answer. "We're investigating the recent murder of another FBI agent, one with undeniable connections to yourself. One you might have reason to harm. And…" He watched her face crumble as she became aware that there was more. "And I received a phone call from Lauren Reed this morning, reporting that her home had been vandalized last night while she and her husband were at dinner. She seemed adamant that we were to question you about the incident."

Sydney glanced desperately at the clock on the wall. "But it's only three in the afternoon, and I've only been missing since around eight this morning. When their house was broken into yesterday, I would have been here, being interrogated."

"No," Jack corrected, "you _were_ missing yesterday. You disappeared at eight yesterday morning. You've been gone over twenty-four hours."

It was tragic, to watch the comprehension descend on her, the tremor in her lower jaw, quickly suppressed. "Dad." She cleared her throat. "I--there seems to be no other way to say it than, I've been lying to you." Her gaze fell specifically on Jack, but she widened it to take in Dixon as well. "Both of you. I told you that I don't remember anything during these…experiences I've been having, but I do. Remember something. Each time, I've had these dreams--memories, actually, of being Julia Thorne. The things that I saw, that I did. Things I shouldn't remember.

"From what I saw in that video I sent Kendall, I knew when I agreed to it that the procedure might kill me, and if I survived I wouldn't remember any of the past two years. But I don't think I anticipated this. I didn't think that it could be reversed. But something has come undone, this block in my memories is breaking down, and I'm terrified. Of what I might remember, all these things I didn't want myself to know…That this reversal might be severe enough to damage the rest of my mind, to--to cause me to do things I have no memory of."

"I wish you would have trusted me with this, Sydney," Jack commented with slow gravity. "This…alters many of the assumptions we had been drawing."

"I wish I could have, too. It was hell, keeping it to myself…But how do you look someone in the eyes and tell them you think you're losing your mind?"

"Sweetheart--"

"It doesn't matter anymore, does it?" she cut in sharply. "We can't change what I did. I wouldn't even be admitting this now, but I need you to agree to help me with something. Something that might prove I'm not guilty."

Jack remained silent, afraid to make a promise about anything that he might not be able to keep, waiting on her to continue.

"I want you to lock me up, away from everything. Where I can't hurt anyone. And if the murders continue, then it can't be me. If they stop…" she left the words hanging in the air; the image of what would happen then was already vividly real to all three.

"If you think it's best, Jack," Dixon spoke up, drawing him back into the moment from his own deliberations, "I'll give it my approval."

Jack looked sideways at Sydney, and she stared expectantly back at him. He nodded.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

Vaughn burst into Dixon's office early the next morning, unannounced, and without greeting or warning, made his demand.

"I want to see Sydney."

Dixon tucked away the document he had been attempting to read and turned his full attention to the younger agent, the slightest irritation turning the corners of his mouth. "You're worried about her, understandably, but I'm not entirely sure that's the wisest course of action in your situation."

"Of course I'm worried. I get home and I learn that Sydney's in the Naval Hospital and she's having dreams about being Julia and _murdering_ people, and, yes, I get a little worried. But you're worried, too. Jack's worried, Weiss is worried, Marshall's worried. We worry about Sydney; it's natural. I swear to you though, my feelings don't go beyond any of yours. They're strictly platonic."

"I'm not questioning your ability to deal with your own emotions, Vaughn. I'm merely concerned about what your wife might feel." His expression darkened almost imperceptibly, but it was not unnoticed by the other occupant of the room.

"If I'm really what she wants, then she'll learn to understand the things I have to do," he phrased carefully.

"You're lucky you caught me in such a good mood." A smile briefly lit on the corners of Dixon's eyes, though it didn't reach his mouth. "Any other time I would have undoubtedly said no, but I'm of the mind that a familiar face or two might help Sydney through what is a difficult transition. I'll call down there and put you on the visitors list. But I hope you're prepared to deal with the consequences."

"I am."

~~~~~~~~~~

A delicate, twenty-something redhead looked over her clipboard, setting it back on her desk once she was contented with her findings. "You do have clearance from Director Dixon, Mr. Vaughn, but," she glanced timidly at him under lashes, "you do understand that I have to ask Agent Bristow's permission as well. She has final say on any visitor."

"I understand." He voice had the clipped manner of a confident man, but the nurse's words had triggered the first hint of uneasiness in his mind. What if she didn't want to see him? Could he really turn around and walk away without talking with her? _No._ He'd throw himself at her feet. He'd beg. He needed to be certain she was okay.

He didn't dare take his eyes from the woman as she walked with short, rapid steps down the hallway, stopping at the fifth door. She unlocked the bolt after a struggle with her key ring, but was still considerate enough to knock politely and wait for the door to open from the inside for her. He heard his own breathing, shallow in his chest, as he watched the comet trail of her hair vanish inside the room, felt it rasp in his throat until the she reappeared, and the tightening around his lungs relaxed at last.

"She'll see you."

His hesitation caught up with him at Sydney's door, and he could barely manage the courage to tap lightly on the thick metal with his knuckles. "Syd?" his voice broke painfully, fumbling her name. 

"Come in."

He pressed lightly on the handle and slid the door easily open on its hinges, but the motion halted when the door was only half open, his muscles stunned into immobility by her appearance: bony, sickly pale, with a curtain of dark hair, thin bangs long enough to shield her eyes. She stared unabashedly back at him, defying him to accept her as she was. As he recovered his composure, he recognized her expectant quiet as an invitation for him to begin the conversation, a test for him to pass.

"Nice haircut," he was horrified to find himself saying. "Midlife crisis?"

It was obvious that it was a subject she didn't quite understand herself either by the defensive way her fingers dove automatically into her shorn locks. "I couldn't tell you. But maybe you could explain it to me, since you seem to know so much about it."

"Ouch. I resent the implications of that statement," he hastily tried to backtrack in order to control the damage he had done. Her affront was apparent as she stalked into the room away from him, but he took the fact she didn't close the door on him as an encouraging gesture, following her inside. 

The entire place seemed to be a tiny apartment stashed away inside the inner belly of the building. He had passed tiny, spartan cells on his journey here through the psychiatric ward of the Naval Hospital, and this was spacious and luxurious in comparison. Four square walls, painted in cheerful shades of orange; in the left corner was one practical collapsible card table with three folding chairs arranged around, obviously for eating meals; in the center of the room was a beaten old recliner situated in front of a small TV stacked on top of a VCR, with a sizeable amount of video tapes heaped nearby; the hard floor was generously covered with a plush rug in a dazzling shade of cherry; the right side was occupied by a pleasant-looking double bed with an overstuffed comforter folded neatly at its foot; there was even a small adjacent bathroom with a shower, toilet, and sink. He'd rented places with less space, and despite being bare of any personal touches, the whole dwelling exuded a _lived-in_ air that made it almost inhabitable…until you noticed the security cameras mounted on the wall.

"Really, Sydney," he continued his gentle scolding as she retreated sullenly to the left side of the room, "you shouldn't insult the person who brings you food from the outside world." He placed his burden of one bulky brown paper sack with a solid _thunk_ on the metal table, and was rewarded by the ravenous hunger that stole guardedly into her eyes. He wondered with concern when the last time she remembered to eat was. "Greasy, fatty, scrumptious food from the outside," he added sanguinely. 

She burrowed into the depths of the bag, pulling back with a sandwich, weighing it inquiringly in her hand as she began to unwrap it from its paper shell. "No ketchup?"

"Ah," he answered, satisfied that his offer of peace had been accepted, "how could I forget your impassioned speech on how ketchup reminds you of blood?"

He was rewarded with a distorted sound through a mouthful of hamburger that might have been taken for appreciation--or something derogative. 

"There's more," he announced, rummaging through his pockets in search of his second gift. Triumphant, he deposited a roughly-treated pack of cards in the center of the table with a flourish. "I thought that after dinner maybe I could beat you at a couple games of Go Fish."

~~~~~~~~~~

Kendall deposited a neat brown folder, brimming with paper, on Jack's immaculately kept desk. "That's it. Everything we came up with after processing Sydney's tests from the other day."

"I didn't ask for paperwork. I asked for answers."

Kendall folded himself into the chair across from Jack, preparing for a lengthy discussion. "Essentially, what it says is that we don't know a damn thing. We're just fairly certain. Fairly certain that Sydney's hypothesis about her memories returning is wrong. You see, even when the human conscious blocks out distressing memories as a measure to ensure its own survival, in almost all of the cases some portion of that 'lost time' returns subconsciously as dreams. The operation Sydney underwent was not only designed to imitate these same human mechanisms, but it was also in its most preliminary stages. It's to be expected that there would be flaws. What we're uneasy about is what has caused this sudden escalation in the frequency and intensity of these memory-dreams.

"Our best guess is that it comes back to her Project Christmas training. What she endured during her time with the Covenant, it put more stress on her than we could have ever anticipated; most spies would have been executed in less than half that time. While the precautions that were taken when she was a child to keep her from being brainwashed held, we also believe that they might have somehow been warped by the experience. She's--basically she's _malfunctioning_. Now, her self-protective impulses are no longer dormant as they once were, activating only in critical situations, but they are actually constantly alert. This has led her to think of even the CIA as the enemy, at least subliminally, and every time she has felt threatened by us--in the safe house, being questioned afterwards--she has involuntarily reacted by splitting her awareness, becoming Julia to escape what she believes is an attempt to brainwash her."

"So, what you're saying is that I'm responsible for what my daughter is suffering through now?"

"Not exactly--sort of indirectly--I mean, who could have ever foreseen her capture by an organization like the Covenant when she was just a kid?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Well…yes."

~~~~~~~~~~

"Any nines?"

"Go Fish."

Vaughn slid the card towards him from the pile between them, facedown on the table, overly cautious in his attempt to keep Sydney from seeing what he had drawn. 

She bit her lip as she examined her own steadily decreasing hand, then narrowed her eyes hostilely at him over their tops. "Stop leaning like that. You're making me nervous."

"What? I'm not doing anything."

"Humph. Got any fours?"

"You asked me that on your last turn. What makes you think I have one now?"

"You just drew a card. It's entirely possible that it was a four."

The expression on his face gave him away, and he tossed the card crossly in her direction. She concealed a smile behind her remaining card as she added the four neatly to her own, positioning them in line with her other pairs. "What about sevens?"

Defeated, he laid his hand out on the table and let her scrounge the seven out of his other cards herself. Sliding it toward herself, she quickly calculated the number of her pairs, "That's…thirteen to five. I think it's safe to say I won. Again." She shuffled a few cards together. "Ready to play another round? Maybe Old Maid this time?"

He stretched his back along the metal of the folding chair, extending his fingertips to the ceiling. "You're not tired yet? Personally, I'm exhausted. Don't you think you should get some rest?" He forced a mammoth yawn, politely covering it with one hand. "It's about time I went home and hit the sack."

The transformation was an amazing one, with only a single beat between the cheerful woman that had been before him a moment ago into a horrified creature caught in the sweeping beams of a car's headlights. "Vaughn--I can't."

"Can't what?" He was instantly sitting forward in his seat, inspecting her for any visible injury. "Did I say something wrong?"

"It's nothing, really," she attempted to recant her initial reaction, a move they both knew he could see straight through. She squirmed, pinned by the weight of his concern to her seat. "I just haven't been sleeping well lately. I worry--about having dreams, about what I might do while I'm having those dreams. Lucy--the girl who works the night shift--she's nice. If anything happened to her like before…"

"So, you're not going to sleep until you're cured, right?"

"No, that's not what I said--"

"Would it help," he proposed warily, doubtful of how she would interpret his intentions, "if I stayed here tonight? If I watched you sleep? I would be here to make sure everyone's safe while you sleep."

"You can't. You have to go home."

"Lauren's in Toronto. No one's expecting me, Syd, if you need me."

"I can't ask you to give up a night of sleep just because I'm a little afraid of the dark."

"You're not asking; I'm offering," he pressed the matter delicately. "And I'll be too anxious over you to sleep tonight anyway, even if I was in my own bed. Let me do this for you. This way, I'll feel like my restless night benefited _someone_."

There was no option left for her but to agree. She unearthed her clothes from her suitcase stashed under the bed and closed herself in the adjoining bathroom to perform her nightly routine. He settled himself in the recliner, dragging it around on its squeaky springs to face the bed, and arranged his limbs as comfortably as he could in the limited space. He watched Sydney doing the same thing, slipping under the starched sheets and lugging the comforter up to her chin. She tossed from side to side several times, the whole mattress groaning with each shift of her weight.

"Vaughn?"

"Yeah?"

"You're too far away over there. It's almost like you're not even here. Come closer."

He indulged her wordlessly, removing himself from the chair to the space directly next to her bed. He balled up his discarded jacket as a pillow between his head and the wall, and extended one leg while drawing the other knee nearer to his chest. "Better?"

"Much." She turned over one final time so she was sprawled on her back, and one hand edged discreetly out from beneath the covers to hang in the air above him. Understanding, he looped his fingers through hers.

~~~~~~~~~~

There was a message on his phone from Lauren. "I know you're there with her," it began, accusing him statically with his wife's whispering voice. "They won't tell me where she is, but I know you're there. But I don't care. I don't care. You've told me before that there are things--about you and her--things I just wouldn't understand, and I beginning to think I don't want to. I just--Michael, come home. What I said before I left, I was angry and scared, and I didn't mean half of it. If you'd just come home, we could have dinner--go out to eat, anything you want--but I'm sure all we need is to talk, and I know we can make this work. Please. I need you." Not I miss you. Not I love you. _I _need_ you. _There was a chilling ring to those words, like by his very absence he was depriving her of air. 

He snapped the cover of his phone shut with a sharp snap that echoed his inner battle, but the woman in the room didn't seem to be aware of the noise, holding herself absolutely immobile and expressionless in the chair across the table from him, almost as if she hadn't even heard. 

These periods were getting closer together, these times when she was someone else entirely, when she withdrew into some world outside her room in the hospital, where she couldn't see or hear him. And when she surfaced from her memories of Julia, she spent her time as Sydney pacing the confines of her prison, deaf to his pleas that she sit down and watch a movie with him or play a hand of cards. Unable to ease her mind or stop her nightmares, he had to content himself with the task of ensuring she at least remembered to eat.

Picking up the bowl of soup the nurse had delivered, he tried to position himself in her line of vision, but her eyes saw right through him to the wall. "Sydney. Syd. Look at me." Even after four other similar experiences, her vacant stare still managed to unnerve him, and his despair got the best of him. "Julia," he tried, the unfamiliar name in his mouth adding to the prevailing sense of unreality in the underground room, like he was someplace outside of time. For a fleeting instant he was convinced he perceived her pupils contracting as she registered his presence, only to be replaced instantly by blankness again. "Why won't you look at me?"

"Because you're a dream," he was astonished to hear Sydney's voice enlighten him. "You're not really here."

"I _am_ here. I'm as real as you."

"No, you're not." There was child-like conviction to the statement that made him even doubt his own existence for a heartbeat.

"Why can't I be?"

"Because you can't be here, Vaughn. If I see you, then they'll see you too. They'll know about you."

"Who? Sydney, it's just you and me. There's no one else to worry about."

There was no hope in attempting to reason with something beyond his comprehension, and he could see her pulling away from him again, her eyes sidling back to an empty spot on the wall. "Fine. Fine," he conceded hastily. "I'm a dream. So, since we've settled that issue, will you at least eat some soup? I can't have you wasting away on me because, you know, they say if you die in your dreams, you die in real life as well."

She drew her eyebrows together, wrinkling her forehead at nothing. "That doesn't sound like something Vaughn would say."

"I'm the figment of your imagination. You tell me what Vaughn would say in this situation."

"'I love you, Sydney.'"

The spoon clanked metallically against the side of the bowl as he set it down so he could give his full attention to this private confession. "I love you, Sydney, more than anything in this world."

A shiver and a sigh rattled her shoulders like her dying breath. "Mmmm. That was good. _Really_ good."

"And so is this soup," he answered quickly, brandishing the full spoon in her direction. "Now, shut up and eat."


	5. Chapter Five

**_Hall of Fame: _Laura **(Let me tell you a secret. You and me, we're in the same boat. I don't even know how I'm going to end this story.), **Lady Prongs of Rohan **(a.k.a. Miss Cleo), **Melissa **(I was so hesitant about putting that part in! Much thanks for letting me know it was appreciated.), and **chopsticks** (I will surrender gracefully to save myself some dignity--and writing space--with one last, heartfelt thank you. Thank you for the thank you for the thank you for the thank you for the thank you.).

Chapter Five

When Jack slipped unobtrusively into the room, Sydney was sleeping soundly on the bed in the aftereffects of the pill Vaughn had dissolved into her last meal, and Vaughn was tightly curled within the restrictions recliner. Sydney was immediately aware of his entrance, slitting her eyes to regard him hazily, and welcoming him with a slight, dreamy smile. "Dad."

Vaughn struggled to slip into wakefulness, blinking his eyes in the fluorescent lighting a few times, but ultimately failed. There were deep purple circles under his eyes, like fresh bruises. Jack touched his shoulder, shaking him gently. "Vaughn." 

His puzzled gaze was drowsy as he rummaged for a coherent thought. "Jack."

"I'd like to talk to Sydney for a few minutes." _Alone,_ another harsh squeeze to Vaughn's shoulder added silently.

"Oh. Yes. Of course," he mumbled, almost as if he was unsure of what he was agreeing to. He gathered up his jacket, which had served him as a makeshift blanket, and with a last glance around, he quietly exited the room and shuffled down to the nurse's station at the end of hall to wait.

"How long has he been here?" Sydney was sitting up in her bed now, straining to see him long after he had disappeared from view.

"Three days. Two nights." She motioned for him to move closer, and Jack joined her in her seat on the bed.

"And he hasn't left at all?"

"Judging by his appearance, I'd have to say no."

Jack saw that it was an idea that sat uneasily with her by the she crossed and uncrossed her ankles repeatedly, looking with frustrated impatience like she would rather be pacing. "You have to tell him to go home."

He tried on his best expression of fatherly disapproval. "I don't think I'm the person he will listen to."

She gave into her impulses, springing to her feet to take an aggravated turn around the room. He watched from where he was until she threw herself into one of folding chairs with all the violence of her vexation, then he moved himself to stand at her side, his hand resting on the back of her chair, so close to her neck but so far from touching her.

"You're going to make yourself sick worrying like this," he observed with dispassionate poise.

She disregarded the comment with a down-turned corner of her mouth. "You obviously came to tell me something. What's happening?"

"The killings have stopped."

It would have been impossible to see her flinch unless you had been looking for it. "That should be good news, but it only seems to make my situation worse. I suppose I'm still the only suspect as well?"

"_Primary_ suspect," he corrected doggedly. "I'm pursuing some leads."

"And? What am I supposed to do here?"

"Exactly. It was a commendable idea, Sydney, but you're clearly not doing anyone any good cloistered in here. The question is, how do we get the CIA to let you walk free when they have you precisely where they can best keep an eye on you?"

"You already have something in mind, don't you?"

"Something." The wavering in his voice conveyed more skepticism than it should have. "If I can get you a clean bill of mental health from a professional they'll respect and listen to--and if they haven't formally charged you with anything--they wouldn't dare hold you here indefinitely. It's illegal, and it's not something they'd want to come under scrutiny if I dropped a word or two to some old friends."

"Anything is worth a try at this point."

"Sydney, I'm sorry." The simple statement surprised both of them with its suddenness and sincerity; Jack involuntarily backed away from her and his own remark, and Sydney blinked her astonishment.

"Dad, you've done everything possible to help me through this. I don't know where I would be without you. What could you have to be sorry for?"

"Nothing." His hand strayed from his side to scoop a stray hair back behind her ears. The dark dye was fading after several washes. "Nothing."

~~~~~~~~~~

From the moment she stepped inside, Judy Barnett was instantly rearranging the room to her personal specifications. Dragging two folding chairs onto the rug, she positioned them far enough away so each woman would have enough room to cross her legs, but not far enough for Sydney to feel any comfort. Dr. Barnett slipped effortlessly into her finest bedside manner, her smile forcing its path through well-worn lines in her face, and she seated herself with an air of purpose and belonging, as if a visit such as this was commonplace. She tapped the other seat lightly with her nails in an invitation for Sydney to join her and paused to arrange her clipboard across her knees. "Sit down, Sydney. You and I have a lot of catching up to do."

Outside, the two men had put as much distance as possible between them in the cramped corner disguised as a sitting area, each attempting to conceal any lingering glances down the hall from the other.

"This will work?" Vaughn broke into the silence that had automatically fallen between them. He had resourcefully spent the minutes Jack had been speaking to Sydney prying what details he could out of Dr. Barnett.

The terse reply of "Something has to," was not the encouraging assurance he had been eager for, and it quickly obliterated any other prospect of conversation in his mind. Silence lengthened into another prolonged period, but his name on Jack's lips drew his head back up again. "Vaughn," he repeated once he had the younger man's attention. 

Vaughn felt the weight of Jack's gaze, accompanied by the irrational stirring of terror in the belief that he could see straight through him. He had done foolish things, said foolish things in the past few days. It had seemed the right thing to do in that secluded part of the Naval Hospital's lowest levels, when he had been apart from the rest of the world. He had let his fears for Sydney undermine his best judgment, and Julia had appeared as a perfect vessel for voicing all the thoughts that were stifling him. She was the one person he was confident would never breathe a word of it to Sydney, and it had been so much more sane than talking to himself.

But now, his reason was surfacing as he discovered reality again in the tiny waiting room. There was the memory of people, real people with real feelings to consider. _Foolish_. 

"Perhaps--" Jack folded his hands, looking as socially uncomfortable as his face would allow him, the slightest tinge of red coloring his ears. "Perhaps it would be best it you went home and patched things up with your wife."__

Defensiveness was an unthinking reaction, undaunted by the prudence of Jack's suggestion. He only had an instant and pervading sense of _none of your business_. "For Sydney's sake, or yours?"  
  


"For your own." His eyes relayed the rest of the message: _Go home._ _I can handle everything here. She's mine to take care of._

The realization that Jack was ultimately and infuriatingly _right_ broke through the cloud of outrage. The truth was uncomplicated enough: Jack was watching over Sydney--his plan was in progress a short walk from where they sat. He was useless here. But Lauren needed him.

He shrugged his coat over his shoulders as he stood, but an unusual heaviness weighing down one side lured his hand to his pocket. He ran his fingers wistfully over the familiar cracks eroded into the spade emblazoned on the package, before heaving the object at an unsuspecting Jack.

"Give her those. And tell her I'm sorry I couldn't stay to say goodbye."

Jack opened his mouth in an effort to produce some sort of comment he had yet to decide on, but the door to the stairwell was already closing on Vaughn's back as he set his foot on the first step that would lead him back into the world he had temporarily forgotten.

But he had left his heart behind, in an old, shabby pack of cards.

~~~~~~~~~~

Dr. Barnett pushed her glasses up to rest on the bridge of her nose with a deliberate, leisurely significance that only added to the air of expectancy hanging on her good diagnosis. Jack made a noise in the back of his throat that fell somewhere short of rudeness, but was an unmistakable hint at impatience. He had been kept waiting far too long.

"Well," she flipped the pages of her notes without really glancing at any of them, "I have to say that I agree with every you told me, Jack. With the stress Sydney's endured since she returned to the CIA, it's not entirely unthinkable that she might be splitting her personality to enable her to cope. Certainly it's not a unique case, becoming another person in order to evade especially difficult problems.

"But," she punctuated by leaning forward, "what's of the greatest interest to me is a pattern I've noticed in her behavior. Every time she escapes into the guise of 'Julia,' she unconsciously returns to a place that holds comforting--let's say good--memories. She associates good things with the site of her old house, her own bedroom now, and the park. It seems her body is triggering a reflex to calm down, to heal itself in a sense, so she will feel relaxed enough to be herself again. If we could assist her in doing that--give her a chance to get away for a little--even if it's not a familiar place, so long as she can forget her problems long enough to recover, I think it might have unlimited therapeutic capacities. I can't guarantee it, but we might even see a full return to her usual self."

She placed a neatly typed document in his expectant hands. "Everything just as you would like. I made my recommendation that she be released, but it's under the condition that she take a few weeks leave to recover. It won't happen any other way. The rest is up to you now."

~~~~~~~~~~

They nearly escorted her to the airport in handcuffs, but they settled for Jack and two CIA agents. 

Sydney pulled her father aside just beyond the line for the security checkpoint, and out of the corner of his well-trained eye, Jack caught the skilled melting of their escort into the crowd. The black had finally washed completely out of her hair, and bouncing on her sandaled feet in front of him with her eagerness to ask the question she hadn't dared to in the car with the agents, she was well on her way to becoming his daughter again.

"I thought we didn't trust Sloane?"

"We don't." One of the guards circled in close on his left, but not near enough to overhear him speaking. "It would have been impossible for you stay here with me, or any one else I could have imposed upon, without doubts being raised over whether or not I was aiding you in covering up anything you might do. Sloane was kind enough to offer the use of his home in Spain, and he promised to bring plenty of work to keep him occupied. The CIA agreed to discharge you to his care under the assumption that if he was indeed abetting your activities, he would be in violation of his pardon, and he would be immediately executed."

"Kind of makes you wish it _was_ me doing all this." An acknowledging smile fell quickly into silence, and she looked desperately first at her carry-on, then at him for some hope of delaying the inevitable farewell.

Struck by sudden inspiration, he dug into his pocket for his wallet, and grabbing at several of the bills inside, unconcerned by the amount, he pressed the money into her hand. He ignored the murmurs of her protest; others fathers did the same thing, and so he could do it as well. "Take it," he placed an underlying note of authority in the words that forbade further argument. "Buy yourself a swimsuit. Take advantage of the little stretch of beach he owns. Or maybe a dress. Have him send someone out to dinner with you one night. I know it can't help to know, but you won't do any of us any good is you don't relax."

The hug was unexpected, wrapping her arms around his neck to draw him close, dragging straight out of his comfort zone. It was unnerving--and breathtaking. 

"I wish you could come with me."

"I wish I could, too." He squeezed her closer momentarily so her ear was a sufficient distance from his mouth to whisper confidentially in. "If worse comes to worse, you have my permission to kill him."

He had the overwhelming delight of seeing her smile--albeit a bit ferociously--as she wove her way through the line, through the metal detectors, and beyond his line of vision. He stood rooted to the spot until he was sure he caught sight of two men detaching themselves from the throng, flashing badges discretely at the airport employees, following her where he could not.


End file.
